Dovey
by Where Do You go
Summary: The story of Charlotte Phillips: teenager, Gothamite, criminal? After brutally murdering her parents, that's what the legal system says! Charlotte:OC; Joker, B-man, etc., characters aren't mine. I love reviews! So please give them!
1. Prologue

Prologue

Breathing became harder the farther she ran, and by her 20th block, Charlotte stopped all together. The cruel night air choked her as she leaned against the grimy alley wall, not caring whether her jacket got stained or not. Gotham 's sky glittered menacingly, and though she often enjoyed gazing at the stars, she had no time to. Her parents had gone off at her—after she had arrived only a few minutes past curfew. Her dad had brought out the belt again, the studded one, and her mother couldn't have waited a minute more to fetch the kitchen knife. A few lashes and cuts later, and everything had become a blur. Unable to take it, she had run, knowing her fate otherwise.

But, she couldn't stand it! Fourteen years of abuse was enough, and it had only worsened after her brother Winslow had left. God, she needed out, but nothing helped. Even the music lessons she had selflessly took weren't enough to please them for long. Although, now she knew how to play acoustic, Spanish, and bass guitars, but her favorite had been the organ and piano lessons. People had hired her to work in churches, away from her sinful parents. She had always liked churches for some reason, and felt like they had been an ominous shelter too almighty to explain. Maybe it was the freedom to express herself through song, or just the nonexistence of her parents' micromanaging eyes.

Without anywhere else to turn, the abuse just worse and worse. Letting tears fall, Charlotte didn't notice the figure approach her. His coat rustled as he walked, and his face shone an eerie white in the dark. But, her emotions had gotten the best of her, and by the time she noticed his presence, he had ventured considerably close.

"Get away!" she yelped, whipping out her switchblade. Its dangerous beauty sparkled in the dim light, supplied by the stars in the sky, which reflected her desperation. Shaking rather violently, she stabbed the air several times, trying to enhance the presence of the knife. That only undermined its affect, and made the stranger laugh evilly. "I'm warning you!"

"Put it away, kid," he mused, but backed away a few steps to humor her. Though his face was undetectable in the pitch dark, a red gleam shone from where he spoke, filling her with terror like no other. It was worse than her parents' unconditional violence, but more intellectual and comforting. Closing her blade, she returned it to its place in her pocket, where it resided happily and murderously.

"Who are you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. Deep down she knew of her forbearance to talk to strangers, but this was different. Playful, alluring words came from him, unlike her parents' threatening slurs and curses, and though very menacing, he intrigued her. "I haven't heard or seen you before."

"Of course you haven't," he responded. "The cops have had me in solitary for months now. But, I'm out, and I'm ready to show everyone my mettle. Though, at the moment your dilemma has delayed me." He added false sympathy to his voice. "So, what is it? Did your boyfriend leave you?" He chuckled quietly to himself, finding this funny, in the sick, psychopathic way.

"No," she said soberly, looking down at her feet. "It's my parents. They've been hitting me since I was little, but now it's different." Harsh memories began to flood back to her as she described her misfortune. "Like they've got no reason to, but just for kicks, you know?" She began her hysterics again. "And I can't take it!" Tears started flowing again, and she cursed herself for showing her innermost emotions to a complete stranger. While she had always been very emotional, she disliked proving so in front of others. The figure tutted, and his faint shadow displayed him rubbing his chin.

"In all my years," he muttered. "I've never seen such a sad sight. Even that Reese man was less pathetic…" He stopped short. "Hey kid, what's your name?" Charlotte wiped away her tears.

"It's Charlotte," He nodded. "Charlotte Phillips."

"Have you ever thought of trying to escape your parents, Charlotte?" She looked up at his words.

"E-escape?" Laughter filled her ears, and chilled her. It was an evil laughter, like the man enjoyed toying with her mind. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_, introduce a little anarchy. Show them you're not afraid. And prove it."

"But how?" was her confused reply. No one had ever talked to her like that. All her teachers had either looked up or down upon her, and every classmate she had managed to have had deemed her too weird, too strange, and too different to be friends with. Thus, she was more alone than the word alone could even define. "How do I 'prove' it?"

The stranger remained silent, perhaps thinking of an appropriate response. Charlotte bit her lip desperately, and reached into her pocket for her switch. Stroking its handle and metallic surface, she felt at ease. She had always found refuge in the presence of a knife, and even when her malicious mother was trying to gut her like a fish, she never felt pain, or panic. This accounted to her parents' anger; they could never get a scream or cry, and never once did she beg for mercy.

But, not once did she complain. Never did she report her parents' misdeeds. And why? The answer was fear. Her fear to save herself, to justify the unjust, and to leave everything she knew behind. Fear kills the senses, destroys the mind, and leaves its victims down and out, like a disease. It hollows out the host's body, and then allows other elements to finish the job. And now, Charlotte was more like food to scavengers than she knew.

"I think," the stranger finally said. "That someone of your creativity and intelligence could figure that out by your self. Hm?" She stared blankly, and continued to stare even as the stranger's presence disappeared. For several minutes she stood still, alone again in the alley. And she remained this way until she remembered the switchblade in her hand. Then, after years of suffering and abuse, did the solution dawn upon her. Then, she found the way to exact her revenge.

By the time she returned home, it was very late. As she expected, her parents were waiting anxiously for her arrival, pretending to take no notice of her. The weapons they held were poorly hidden by their excited hands, which ached to just hit her a little more. But, their antics were brushed off by their quiet, apathetic daughter, who walked past them without a word. While Mrs. Phillips adopted a foul, offended expression, her husband took further measures. Approaching Charlotte , he grabbed her shoulder, and spun her around. The next thing he knew, she was holding a knife to his throat, and his wife was crying out in anguish.

"How does that feel?" she asked venomously, looking down at him for the first time in her life. "How does it feel to know your own daughter has the ability to fight back? Huh? Does it make you feel scared? To know that the person you've been punishing for years finally has the upper hand?" Sweat beads rolled down his forehead, gleaming in the lamplight. "And it's not just fear, is t? It's regret. Regret that you've created your own destruction!" Mrs. Phillips did nothing to aid her husband. Instead, she watched from afar, awaiting and fearing Mr. Phillips's judgment.

"N-now Charlotte , dear," he stammered, helpless at the will of his offspring. "There's no need to overreact. Just, put down the knife, and we'll talk this all out. Like civilized people—"

"Civilized people?!" she yelled, shaking him violently. "Never, in my life have I been so disgusted! Your actions have already showed me what kind of people you are. Now it's time for your judgment, and I fear it won't go your way, Daddy dearest." Looking up at her mother, she grimaced hatefully, and returned to her victim. "Your fate is…death!" Just like that, she delivered the fatal blow. A slit to the throat later, and he was dead.

Mrs. Phillips screamed in horror, dropping her weapon, and falling to her knees on the ground, watching helplessly as her husband died before her. His blood soaked the floor, and stained his wife's hands as she held him. Meanwhile, Charlotte watched in pure revelation, feeling better than anything else. But now, it was her mother's turn. Pushing aside her dead father, she effortlessly grabbed her from her mournful position, and let the blade of the knife rest on her neck, waiting for its master's ultimate judgment.

"And now, it's time for your judgment," Mrs. Phillips shuddered, always having been the deliverer of such a title. "One can only guess what it will be."

"Why?" she asked bluntly, struggling in the grasp of her daughter.

"'Why'?" she repeated, looking at her mother in disgust. "What a question! As if you'd have the audacity to ask such a thing!

"Well, since you have asked, I suppose I'll have to answer. Everything I'm doing to you is for everything you've done to me. Every wound you've given, every threat you've made. For everything you thrown at me, for everything you've charged me with. For assaulting me, injuring me, and degrading me, I give you your judgment!" A weak smile sprung to her face. "And you know, I think I'll let you…die!" And just like with her father, she slit the throat of her mother, and let her body fall beside him. No longer would they hurt her. She was free at last.

Looking over the dead corpses of her parents, a tickle began in her throat. At first it was low, but as it started to grow, it became insane, unstoppable laughter. She was laughing at the murder of her parents. And she liked it.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: In Which We Are Introduced to Madness

Gotham city: the home of hero/vigilante Batman. He was the Dark Knight, unselfishly protecting the city and its people. His archenemy was the Joker, a demented, clown-like mastermind bent on destruction. Much to the city's disdain, no one truly knew the Joker. His past was a mystery, with only his present crimes--of theft, murder, arson, etcetera--known. Yet, his intentions were unknown, and the innocent people of Gotham forever quaked in their boots, fearing his unpredictable, untraceable wrath. For, their pathetic lives were entrapped in his cold, purple-gloved hands; and, those were dangerous.

In the city of Gotham--amid the crime and evil--lived a girl named Charlotte. Emotionally unstable, legally insane, and the unfortunate committer of several, penalizing crimes, she aboded in the Arkham Asylum. But, that was most of the time. The rest of the time she was free by probation, wandering the city and causing more trouble. At the difficult age of 16, she was just another somebody. She had long, dark, soft hair, which draped over her oval face. On that face were enchanting, sea-colored eyes, right above her button nose, and attractive mouth. In all, she was average: average height, weight, average everything. The only accountable feature was her strong chin--taken from her father, who had "passed away" several years ago. She held that chin high with pride and dignity, taking nothing from people that wasn't minimal respect. It was this that--on several occasions--had led her into fights, problems, and messy confrontations. But, it couldn't be helped. Despite insanity, lack of stability, and the fact that she was a registered felon, she was just another teenager, taking the world a few steps at a time. Yet, her life was an unending cycle of pain, with nothing to stop her heart from bleeding. She expected herself to die like this, and she might have, if she hadn't met the Joker.

It was on one of her probation days: the sky was perfectly blue, the streets filled to the brim with cheerful people, and it seemed like _everyone _was smiling. Charlotte saw no pleasure or happiness, and surely no smile covered her face. Gingerly, she walked into a bank to collect a couple of twenties, and upon her entrance, she approached a teller--ignoring suspicious faces of the other citizens in the bank. Just as the first words had escaped her mouth, she was interrupted by a series of gunshots, and watched as goons in masks--which would have been comical if not for the situation--ran in, each sporting a large machine-gun. While every other person fell to the ground, accepting the fate of a robbery, Charlotte remained standing, her chin jutted adamantly. Angry, the head goon ran aggressively toward her.

"You! Get on the ground!" She shook her head, folding her arms defensively. The goon continued his ranting. "I said down, bitch! Do as you're told, or I'll fill you full o' lead!" She widened her sea-colored eyes, taken aback.

"No, you can't make me do anything! This isn't your show, so stop pretending to be the ringmaster." The goon clenched his fist, hoisting the M16 from his side.

"You'll be sorry!" he screamed. He wildly pointed the barrel at her forehead, and just as he pulled the trigger, a purple-gloved lifted it into the air. Instead of terminating Charlotte, the bullets brought down a large light fixture. Looking at her savior, she cringed. For, in place of the shining idol, was the infamous face of the Joker.

His face was caked in chalk-white makeup, except for his eyes, which were circled in a fading black. His mouth was red, and formed a garish, demented smile; looking closely, she saw that old, fading scars were the defining lines of the hideous expression. The hair upon his head was tinged a dark green, strewn carelessly strewn around his head. Everything he wore was colorful: he donned a purple suit, beneath that a green vest, and dark blue dress shirt. Around his neck was a dirty, green tie, and on his feet were oily, black, leather shoes.

"Kiddies, please," he said, his voice relaxed, but unable to conceal the faintest hint of excitement behind his yellow teeth. "This is _not_ a playground. Can't we all just be...friends?" Turning to the goon, he lifted a pistol from the folds of his jacket, and shot the man in the forehead. As he fell, the Joker returned his focus to the girl, smiling at her frighteningly. Taking out his favorite knife, he lunged for Charlotte, grabbing the collar of her shirt and her proud chin.

"Hello, _cutie_," he whispered, gritting his teeth. She struggled in his grasp. "My, aren't we _tough_ for a child."

"I'm not—" He squeezed her chin, and let the knife get closer to her neck.

"Don't interrupt!" His voice echoed, demanding attention. Regaining his composure, he continued. "By the way, haven't I seen you before? Hm?" Charlotte remained mute, pursing her lips. "Oh! A quiet one! I guess you're just bored, hm, _dovey_," The Joker smiled wickedly. "I suppose I _must _entertain you then, no?" He laughed at her refusal to speak. Licking his teeth, he pulled her closer to him, as she wrestled for freedom. "Do you know how I got these scars, dovey? Have you, ever wondered?" She shook her head. Laughing again, he cleared his throat, and continued. "Well, when I was younger, I had this _notion_ in my head: it told me I was invincible, and that I had the right to think so. So, every night, I gambled away my money, drank to no toast, and _destroyed_ myself. Of course, after awhile, my wife began to worry! 'Why do you do it?' she would ask, crying at my feet. Being a sucker for tears, I'd always try to falsely comfort her. You know what I did? I would say something like 'Don't worry, doll, I'll stop,' or 'I promise to stop.' But, I never did.

"And, eventually, all things come to an _unfortunate_ ending," He looked from side to side. "In more ways than one. Poor wifey couldn't handle my behavior; she was fed up, stressed out, and about to _die_. Obviously, this didn't bode well with me. Even in my pigheadedness, I still loved the girl, and couldn't live without her. We...fought, and it got so _fiendish, _that my dearly beloved pulled out the kitchen cleaver!" He chuckled, nodding in remembrance. "Unfortunately, no damage was done, if only physically." The Joker leaned in closer, baring his teeth. His hand moved from her chin to her throat, suffocating her. "So, that night, I went out, with the image of my wife still fresh on my mind. Like every other night, I gambled and drank. But, that night was different. Can you tell me why?"

"You..had no purpose...to do so," she choked out, clawing desperately at his purple-gloved hands. As she spent her air trying to stay conscious, he only responded with laughter.

"Right you are, dovey," The name he had bestowed on her meant nothing as she lost more and more air to his treacherous hands. "As I was saying, nothing I did was really the same. At first I thought this..._sadness_ could be helped by the increase of my regular activities. And you know what? It didn't.

"So, as my pitiful life began to spiral downward, so did my financial situation. The sharks eventually caught up to me, and when they smelled blood, they attacked. By the next morning, I was just a beat up, bloody pulp. Noone stopped to help me. All I was was that sad little man who couldn't smile." He widened his eyes. "And that very day, after I returned home, I noticed just _that_. Then, I remembered something: how happy I _had _been. When my wife and I fought, I smiled; when I gambled and got slobbering drunk, I smiled; smiling was my life!" The Joker smirked, licked his lips, and continued in a raspy whisper. "And if I didn't have my smile, I didn't have _anything_.

"Without my smile, nothing was really the same. I found it harder to get up every morning, and after several days, I couldn't even eat. The days dragged on slower, the sun became hotter, and I became... much..._sadder_. So sad, so very sad. For days within weeks...within months, I never left that tiny apartment. But, what did I care? What was so great about life if I couldn't smile? Hm?" Charlotte could feel her consciousness failing. She could also feel the numbness of her legs, the weakening of her hands, and the constriction of her throat under the Joker's strong hands. She helplessly tried to pry the hands from her neck, but just as the last sigh of breath was lost, her throat was released from his vice-like grip, and the air returned to her deprived lungs. The Joker looked down upon her, smirking and giggling all the while. "So, dovey, one night I decided I was going to get my smile back, in _any_ way I could. And in my desperation, I admit I did find a _rational_ way to do so."

"By carving up your face?" she asked timidly, barely speaking above a dignified whisper. The Joker narrowed his eyes, and bit his bottom lip.

"Now dovey," he said quietly, leaning closer to her. "If you don't want to hear the story, that's fine, but," his eyes darkened. "don't _ever_ interrupt me, _ever_ again. I've already asked you nicely." He took the knife and and allowed it to dance before her eyes. "Now that I have your attention, I believe we can have a reasonable conversation.

"What brings you to Gotham First National Bank, dovey?" He casually waved the knife in front of her face, this time closer to the neck. "Come now, speak up!"

"I'm on my liberty probation," she said, her eyes following the knife's sharp blade. The Joker stopped smiling, and looked at her with something that resembled seriousness.

"Probation?" His voice reeked of interest, and let a laugh slip from behind his teeth. "What have you done to earn a probation?" She looked at him, hoping to seem defiant, to no avail. His dark, persuasive eyes seemed to pull the information from her mouth.

"Well," she began, slightly jutting her chin. "I have been known to..._kill_ certain people." Her captor looked at her questioningly, and she continued under his watchful gaze. "These people included two police officers and a low-level lawyer." The Joker was silent for a moment, then, as the very threads of his composure snapped, he began to laugh hysterically, frustrating Charlotte.

"And why, dovey?" he asked through his cruel laughter. "Why did you 'kill' these police officers and lawyer? What _was_ the motive, hm?" She felt her anger rising, though she knew she shouldn't allow anyone—especially him—to aggravate her.

"The cops were trash," she answered, trying to sound casual, but failing. "And that lawyer had other motives than just trying to defend my case."

"But—"

"There were no 'buts'!" she screamed, surprising both him and herself. Breathing deeply, she continued, her energy rising. "If _you_ were in that situation, what would you do? What is the 'right' thing to do if your only options are jail or rape?!" Her eyes shone with defiance. The Joker, unused to defiance in his presence, merely smiled through the difference, and smoothed back his hair.

"So, _dovey_," he said after several moments of silence. "What did you use? Hm? Guns? Poison? Or let me guess: you hired out some brute to do it?"

"No," she replied plainly, taking out an object from her back pocket. "This." Flicking it open, she revealed it to be an old switchblade. The Joker plucked it from her hand easily—and tucking away his own knife—examined it with mock interest. Dropping Charlotte, he felt the blade of the knife, running it slowly across the tip of his fingers. Smirking, he closed the blade, and threw it to its owner.

"Well," he said, cracking his knuckles casually. "It seems like this dovey is more entertaining than most." Turning to one of the masked goons, he beckoned him over, pointing at Charlotte. "Take her; she's a bona fide hostage." The goon nodded, and dragged Charlotte from the ground, and into his care.

"Let go of me!" She struggled, but to no avail. The goon held her apathetically, waiting for his boss's command. The Joker looked over her humorously, watching as she attempted to escape her detainer. It was quite pathetic, yet at the same time, the action was bold, inspiring. Laughing to himself, he waved frivolously to the goon holding Charlotte. By that simple command, she was clubbed by the butt of the gun, and—along with the money and other hostages—was thrown into the bright yellow school bus that shrouded the evil within. And all through the drive, the Joker laughed, sending subconscious chills up Charlotte's spine.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: In Which Madness Returns the Greeting

Charlotte awoke to the the sounds of police sirens, barking dogs, and voices screaming over a loud speaker. At her first attempt to move, she found herself bound by a coil of rope to a cold, steel chair, facing a mass of policemen, SWAT teams, and wary civilians who stood hundreds of feet below. With neither eyes nor mouth covered, she realized her condition was better than the other hostages, who she saw thrown against a wall behind her, each silenced with mere dread. Ripping her eyes away from the pitiful sight, she turned toward her left, and found her captor—the Joker—standing there. He stood quietly, gazing with gleeful eyes upon the havoc he had created.

Then, suddenly, he turned to face her, smiling hideously as he noticed her present consciousness.

"Oh dovey! You're awake," he mused, sauntering over to where she sat. "And just in time for the show!" Taking out the same switchblade he had held earlier at the bank, he effortlessly cut her bonds, and pulled her brutishly from the chair. He then grabbed the ragged hood of her jacket, pulling her along like an abused puppy. Twirling the open knife in his fingers like a baton, he skipped with psychotic excitement, seemingly unaware of the discomfort he was causing Charlotte.

The hostages shifted restlessly, each thinking of the fate they might meet. As the Joker's tall shadow passed over each and every one, he chuckled, enjoying the terror that he domineered upon these people. Charlotte then saw how much "safer" she was in the grasp of her captor, instead of lying on the ground with the others.

But, the vile sparkle in his eyes revealed his intentions went beyond just frightening them. He kept walking until he stood in front of a large, sweaty-looking man; he didn't seem important, but if the Joker specifically looking for him, he had to be something. Like all the other hostages, his mouth was duct-taped, his eyes were covered with a ragged, red bandanna, and his ID was pinned to the front of his shirt.

"Why, _hello_, Mister...uh," Taking the ID in his hand, the Joker smiled. "Mr. Warner! A pleasure, _really._" The man remained silent, but his actions told everything: the little whimpers, the cringing as his captor spoke. "Say hello, _dovey_." He pulled at her long, soft hair, forcing her to bend unto his will.

"Hello," she almost whispered. Nothing could be worse than the humiliation she was feeling now, not even all the times she had been ridiculed by the other Arkham inmates. They had seen her as just a child, not capable of anything _truly_ terrifying. But, she had shown them, hadn't she?

"...Do you know why you're my hostage, Mr. Warner?" The Joker asked, leaning closer to the man, while still holding Charlotte by her collar. "Mr. _Albert_ Warner? You're a squealer: a cop's best friend! You're _in_famous for telling those cops over at GPD about all the bad kiddies in town, and obviously, they trust you. That's why I have a favor to ask." The man remained motionless, paralyzed with fear. The room was silent, save for the noise from outside. No one dared to make a sound, afraid to disagree with their captor in any way.

Yes, his habit of frightening people succeeded his appearances, and it had not hesitated to also stain these people's ears. Even she had heard of him—along with the tales of his flamboyant attacks against Gotham's well-being. At Arkham they had whispered his name as if it were a curse, and here, she was shown an example of the power he exercised: the power of fear.

"Mr. Warner, this is a _limited_ time offer," The Joker's slick voice pulled Charlotte from her train of thought. "And, if you help me, I'll let you go, Mr. Warner. Hm? How about that?" The man—at the mention of his potential freedom—shifted, obviously interested in his sole survival. He wasted no time in thought, and nodding vigorously, sealing his fate with the devil. "Good, now if you'd hold still..." He trailed off, using the switchblade in his hand to cut the bonds that held Mr. Warner captive, and—letting go of Charlotte—picked up the robust man. Ripping the duct tape from his mouth and aggressively pulling the bandanna off his head, the Joker succeeded in both horrifying and knocking down his unfortunate hostage back to the floor. Laughing nonchalantly, his captor picked him back up, brushed off the man's jacket roughly, then held him by knife-point as he elaborated Mr. Warner's part in his plan. "Now, _sir_, you're going to go down there, and tell them I'm up here, holding several _esteemed_ hostages. If they so much as propose storming this place, you'll make it clear how _easy_ it is for me to kill them. If all else fails, make up something.

"And," he finished, lowering his voice. "I'd make a point of our little _friend_ here," The Joker jabbed a thumb in Charlotte's direction. "The kids _always_ get to them." Patting the portly man heartily on the back, the criminal waved him off, watching with a devilish twinkle in his eye. A twinkle that Charlotte saw and secretly admired. "Oh, and don't forget Mr. Warner: have fun!" The man didn't seem to hear, and nearly falling down the stairs, believed that he was free. But, he was sadly mistaken.

Charlotte slunk quietly away from her captor's side, heading toward the windows, watching the masses of people waiting for the next move. She leaned against the glass, her sea-colored eyes darting in fascination. As she began to laugh at the policemen's stupidity, she was pulled away from the glass by her captor.

"Stay away from the glass, dovey," he warned coolly, grabbing her hood and dragging, then dropping, into her seat. "The show is almost ready to start. Right...about..._now_!" He said this as the large figure of Mr. Warner exited the building, seeking refuge in the familiar arms of the Gotham police force. The policeman and women—including the Commissioner—welcomed him gladly, recognizing him as an ally. Even from the 8th story seating, they could see the desperation written on his face as he related the Joker's message, probably word for word, as was the assumed nature of the man. The Joker laughed hysterically, enjoying the ploys of his mind play forth.

Charlotte watched the man in anxiety, hoping nothing would turn foul. Though she disliked the situation she had been placed in, it would definitely turn out worse in the company of an angry psychopath. Besides, the idea of one man plunging an entire city into the furthest depths of chaos made her wonder if it were as easy as he made it seem. Was Gotham really that easy to fully unhinge? Or was it the way he did it that truly destroyed every rule and regulation thrown at him?

For several minutes, the Joker stood quietly, watching the policemen intently. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, but she knew he couldn't stay like this for long. By the way he was rubbing his palms together, and shifting his wait, she saw he was impatient to send the city into a roller coaster of chaos. The only thing that impaired him was the _push _to begin the wild ride. Digging around his pockets, he took out a clip of bullets, and waved over a goon that had concealed himself from the hostages. Taking his machine gun, the Joker smiled, and using a pistol that had been concealed within his coat pocket, shot the unsuspecting goon. Smiling to himself, the Joker returned to the window, and smiled mockingly at the entrapped Charlotte.

"Now what _this_," he said, partially to himself and to his assembly of hostages. Aiming at the large form of Albert Warner, he giggled, and took fire. The first few bullets shattered the glass, sending shards to attack Charlotte's face and body. Behind her, the other hostages also felt the shower of flying glass. Several shrieked in pain, while others remained painfully silent. Touching her face and examining her hand, Charlotte's stomach churned at the sight of her own blood. Hastily wiping it on her pant leg, she looked over into the now-chaotic streets of Gotham. People scrambled about like confused ants, trying to flee the wrath of the city's worst criminal. The victim of the attack lay on the ground, screaming so loudly that the surrounding observers could hear, but so pathetically the noise traveled slowly into their ears. Laughing cruelly, the Joker continued to shoot the poor man, while those who watched felt compelled to watch helplessly. Then, it dawned upon Charlotte that he was intending to end this man's life using _all _of the bullets.

"Stop," she said simply, at first attracting no attention. Approaching the hysterical psychopath, she tapped him bravely on the shoulder. "Stop." Turning slowly, the Joker looked at the bleeding girl, and laughed. On her face was a look of determination, and through the child-like looks he saw a passion. Throwing down the gun, he suddenly took out another switchblade, and with amazing speed, grabbed Charlotte by her long, sweaty tresses. After hearing an affective whimper of pain, he relocated his hands to her arm and jacket-hood.

"Why, _dovey_?" he asked humorously. "Why should I 'stop'?" Charlotte glanced quickly at the knife, then back at his face.

"One, that knife doesn't scare me," she said, breathing slowly. "And two, continuing to shoot that man would be a waste of bullets." The Joker narrowed his eyes, reading her confused face. A look of fear hid behind her eyes, and her mouth was pursed defiantly. This made him laugh, and in his laughter, he found something to say.

"Why doesn't this knife scare you? Hm, dovey?" Charlotte licked her lips, and remained silent. "Come now! You can tell your _dear_, friend Joker, no?" He smiled, ignoring her. "All right then, I'll find out for _myself_."

"And how do you expect to do that?" she returned, breaking her silence. "You know nothing about me! You don't even know my name—"

"—is Charlotte Phillips? And that your little _antics_ landed you in Arkham Asylum, along with the rest of us?" he finished, laughing. She looked at him in surprise. "Don't underestimate me, dovey. I _do_ know who you are, and I _don't_ appreciate your doubt." He leaned in closer, whispering in her ear. "You see, dovey, I have a _way_ of attracting interesting people." He glanced out the shattered window and onto the street. "Like Mr. Warner. _He_ was interesting. Always paid taxes, never skipped work, good to his wifey, yada yada yada.

"Of course, he lived in the 'bad side' of Gotham, meaning...well, you know," The Joker smirked, licking his lips. "So, like _every _good little boy would do, he marched right up to those policemen, andtoldthem _every_ little tidbit of information his wandering ears had caught. In fact, he's been doing it for years!" He laughed, allowing Charlotte some leverage in his grip. "When _I _heard that, I couldn't help but meet the man! I mean, doing it _that _long for absolutely nothing! Would you do it?" Shaking his head, he smiled, curbing the previous laughter. "No, _you _wouldn't, but _he_ would, and..._did_." Charlotte narrowed her eyes, her lips pursed questioningly.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked dryly. "If you're going to kill me—"

"_Kill_ you? Now, dovey, why would I do _that_?" he asked mockingly, gritting his teeth into a frightening smile. "You're the liveliest thing here! I'm _not_ about to eliminate my entertainment. Besides," He smiled mischievously. "I think I _like _you." That had been enough. Acting on impulse, Charlotte kicked him bravely in the stomach, feeling his hold disappear totally. She fell ungracefully to the ground, but managed to return to her feet. Looking up, she saw the Joker, and despite justing having been delivered a kick to the stomach, he was laughing. But, unlike before, his laughter scared her. She didn't understand him: laughter was not intended to go hand-in-hand with pain. It seemed wrong that something so innocent could be tied into something so inhumanly disgusting.

She backed away slowly, hoping to find a way to escape the imprisonment of this psychotic clown man. The weight of the switchblade in her back pocket seemed to increase tenfold, and her heart felt as though it were about to burst through her chest. Stumbling, Charlotte saw the other hostages squirm on the ground, forced to hear their captor's sickening laughter and unable to stop it. Nothing appeared more horrible, and it seemed nothing could be done to stop it. That is, until the very symbol of Gotham appeared: Batman.

Bursting through a window, he stood in front of Charlotte, his cold, dark eyes looking through her soul. He immediately spotted the Joker, frowned, and proceeded to approach him.

"Well hello there, Batman! I've been waiting, you know," said the psychotic Joker-man, flipping out yet another switchblade. "And it _isn't_ right to keep your audience waiting, no?"

"I'm not here to entertain you, _Joker_," his adversary returned, hissing in distaste. "I'm here to stop you, and save these people." The Batman cracked his knuckles, and prepared himself to fight. "It's over, Joker."

"Oh tut-tut Bats! You couldn't stop me if you tried," the Joker replied humorously. "Besides, that _dovey_ over there was the inspiration for it all! Shouldn't you be locking her up instead of me?" Batman growled angrily. His deep voice sent chills up Charlotte's spine, and though she wouldn't have like to say it, she felt a level of respect for him. Someone who could take on the Clown Prince of Crime was either very brave, or very stupid.

"Stop stalling! This ends _now_," And with that, the battle of two legendary figures began. Batman proved proved to be a worthy adversary, fighting gracefully in his Kevlar. The Joker, however, had a different sort of finesse. Despite his jerky, murderous stabs at his opponent, he was hard to look away from, showing that his makeup wasn't the only thing that attracted the public eye. But, with every stab, punch, kick, and cry of anger, Charlotte finally saw how it was going to end: like it always did.

Eventually—as guessed—Batman got the upper hand. Blocking the various cuts meant to meet his face, the Dark Knight grabbed his psychotic enemy, and threw him angrily against the nearest cement wall. A dull crack was heard as the Joker's head made contact, but all the Batman's antics were met with that _horrible_ laughter. Charlotte's eyes widened as she was again subject to it's vile, alluring sound, letting it wrap its coils around her brain, then squeeze—like a snake killing its prey. Memories of a similar laughter flooded back steadily, attacking her mentality aggressively. She hated remembering things: especially if they reeked of pain and regret.

"Scum like you don't _deserve_ to live," Batman growled, picking up the hurt, laughing psychopath. He dragged the Joker like a rag doll, approaching Charlotte as a menacing figure in a black shroud. She looked at him in fear, seeing the abundant set of muscles beneath his costume. He was intimidating, but unlike the Joker, in an unapproachable way.

"Don't look so surprised, dovey," the Joker laughed weakly, holding his sides. Charlotte didn't know that she showed her emotions so freely. She wiped the scared, dismal look from her face, but still didn't manage to look normal in front of two psychotic men. "Little old Bats here is used to scaring kiddies, like _you_." The object of the Joker's obsession looked at him coldly, then without a word to the girl, hit him smartly on the head. The Joker's smile remained, even in his unconscious state.

"Who are you?" he asked, his deep voice echoing inside her head.

"Charlotte," she replied simply, the prominent sense of discomfort rising as the Batman character examined her. Sticking her hand in her back pocket, the metallic caress of her switchblade calmed her, allowing her to think clearly. So _this_ was Batman? The city's protector and savior? Charlotte wasn't sure if she was disappointed or not; all she knew was that _this_ wasn't what came to mind when one thought of a man dressed as a bat that flew around the city protecting people.

"What _are_ you doing here?" His eyes were dark, and filled with a sense of profound purpose. She scoffed at him—though she didn't feel like he would truly find it offensive—and shrugged her shoulders.

"I suppose I was _his_ hostage," she said, her fear subsiding slightly. The Batman nodded, remaining eerily silent. After several moments, he turned away from her, and one-by-one, released the hostages. Each followed him like lost sheep, trying to remain as calm as possible, but failed as they saw the man that had been their captor only moments ago. Gotham's protector quickly turned to look at her, a sad, indifferent look in his dark eyes.

"Will you come quietly?" he asked in a raspy voice, still managing to send chills up Charlotte's spine.

"What other option do I have?" she replied quietly, looking at the terrified hostages forlornly. If they only knew her pain, maybe they wouldn't feel so unfortunate. But, of course, they didn't know her pain, and each remained stupidly silent while they were transported safely to the Gotham Major Crimes Unit.


End file.
